


Ten Minutes Ago

by the_east_wind_my_darling



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Explicit Language, Fluff, It's just sally cursing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 11:49:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11782536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_east_wind_my_darling/pseuds/the_east_wind_my_darling
Summary: John Watson, benched from the rugby team for a shoulder injury, is stepping in as stage manager for the school production of Cinderella. But how long will he last while working with the notorious student director, Sherlock Holmes?





	1. Prologue/Me, Who Am I?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm so excited to publish this, I had a blast writing it.

“John!” a voice boomed from the front of the class as the senior attempted to sling his backpack over his shoulder.   
“Mr. Stamford,” John smiled.  
“I heard about your injury; my condolences.”  
John shrugged with his injured shoulder, instantly regretting the unconscious action. John grimaced. Stamford mirrored the reaction.   
“Eh, could have been worse. My biggest problem is figuring out what to do with myself after school for the next ten weeks.”  
Stamford cracked a smile.   
“You know, I just spoke to a student today looking for someone in your situation.”  
John cocked his head.  
“And who might that be?”  
Stamford laughed.   
“Come ‘round my office after school. I’ll introduce you.”

Five class periods and a countless number of sympathy stares later, John found himself walking to the east side of the building with his English teacher. John was, admittedly, less familiar with this end of the school; art filled the walls and the sounds of singing and creative laughter filled the hallway rather than the deafening silence in the more academic areas of the building. 

“The theatre department is looking for a stage manager for the spring musical. It’s a tough job- you’re in charge of maintaining order during rehearsals, keeping folks quiet, organizing the crew, and generally making sure things run smoothly. You’ll be working under the director- brilliant chap, but he is also part of what makes this job tough.”

“Who’s the director?” John asked as they pushed through the double doors to the auditorium. Stamford grinned and called out into the cavernous room. 

“Holmes?”

A tall figure just in front of the stage turned to meet the visitors. His piercing gaze skipped over Stamford’s figure and landed on John, clearly new to the environment. John stood firm, matching his stare and gathering some salient details of his own. The man really was tall- all angles and lean lines, pale skin that contrasted sharply with unruly curly black hair, and eyes behind which you could almost see a quick mind churning. 

“And you are?” Holmes asked the stranger.   
“John Watson,” he replied.   
“John Watson. Rugby player, judging by your physique, and quite a good one, if the hallway gossip is to be trusted. Studying to become a doctor- only a student of medicine has that many textbooks in their backpack and takes an extra book recommended but not made mandatory by the teacher home for light reading. You’re considering joining the army to avoid the costly expenses of secondary schooling, and you have one older sibling- brother, I think.

“Now, the post of stage manager is a difficult one- lots of telling other people to shut up, managing their hatred for you, ensuring rehearsals go relatively smoothly, and, of course, dealing with me. Are you sure you’re up for it?”

“Who said anything about being stage manager?” John asked.   
“I did. I told Stamford earlier I was in need of a stage manager more competent than hateful Anderson before rehearsals begin, and now he shows up with you, a rugby captain with nothing to do for the rest of the season. Hardly rocket science.” The director concluded, crossing his arms and leaning against the stage. John may have gaped. Sherlock smirked. 

“Well? Are you up for it?”  
“Absolutely,” John replied.   
“Good. We should meet before rehearsals start to discuss the show and your role in it. Are you free tomorrow after school?”  
“We don’t know a thing about each other, I don’t know where we’re meeting, and I don’t even know your name.”  
“The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street.”  
Then, Sherlock winked, and swept out of the aud through a set of stage doors John had no idea existed.   
This was going to be interesting.


	2. In My Own Little Corner (221B)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet again for some strategizing.

221B Baker Street was only a twenty minute walk from school; not far, but definitely in a different neighborhood than the one John was familiar with. As he approached the nondescript, heavy black door, a cab pulled up to the curb, and Sherlock Holmes stepped out of it with a grace and poise no one should possess while exiting a vehicle. 

“John Watson. You came.”  
“Yes, though I’m not exactly sure where we are.”

Sherlock flashed him a small smile before striding up to the imposing door and knocking three times. It swung inward, and a little old woman yanked Sherlock into the threshold for a hug.

“Sherlock! It’s been too long.”  
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Allow me to introduce my new stage manager, John Watson.”

John stepped forward into the cozy interior, and was pulled into a hug from Mrs. Hudson. She finally released him from her arms and pulled the two of them into an apartment. Sherlock threw himself into an armchair by the fire, and John gingerly set himself o a nearby loveseat. Mrs. Hudson brought out tea and cookies, smiling at the sight before her.

“I’ll leave you boys to your work.”  
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John replied. Sherlock hummed his agreement and wrenched himself into an upright position, pulling a notebook and pen from somewhere within his coat.

“The show is, of course, Cinderella, as you have no doubt heard over the morning announcements. The chorus teacher will be assisting with the musical portion, and I will be working with the dance teacher to develop choreography to my liking. I will be directing scenes and conducting the artistic vision. That leaves you with one of the most difficult jobs: making sure each of those moving parts comes together smoothly. 

“My last stage manager, Anderson-- ” Sherlock paused here with an expression of utter disgust—“was an absolutely dreadful leader. Most people don’t like me,"  
"I like you," John interrupted, then flinched at his outburst. That was absolutely unnecessary. He had known Sherlock for one day.  
Sherlock seemed a bit flustered.  
"Yes, well, most people don't, so I need someone charismatic whom the cast will listen to. As Captain of your rugby team, I have no doubts you can demand respect and hold the attention of the room. A word of advice- the moment you stop showing them respect, or you hold them to a higher standard then you hold yourself, is the moment you have lost. Tread carefully.” 

Sherlock abruptly broke the steady eye contact he had maintained with John throughout the speech and turned to his notebook. John sat at the edge of the couch, slightly overwhelmed by the intensity and duration for which Sherlock had just addressed him. Sherlock was known for being callous, almost creepy, in the way he could read people and dismiss them as if they had no importance. John saw the same behavior others did, but he couldn’t understand their reaction; what was more impressive than the way he could understand you with only a glance, than his massive intellect?

John broke from his reverie as Sherlock addressed him again.

“It will take you a bit to settle in, I’m sure, but just stick by me and look like you know what you’re doing and you’ll be fine.”

“When do I start?” John replied.

“Auditions are Monday; you should attend those to get a sense of the environment and the usual crowd, if nothing else. Cast list goes up Tuesday, rehearsals begin Wednesday.” Sherlock turned back to his notes.

John hesitated before asking what was probably a stupid question.

“Isn’t that a little quick? Just one night to make all the casting decisions?”

“Auditions are immaterial. I’ve already casted the show.”

John was taken aback by dismissal of such democratic procedures.  
“Is that- fair? How can you possibly know who is best for each part?”

Sherlock looked up at John, pinning him with that gaze.  
“I already know the talents and abilities of each theatre student who has previously participated in a show. The remaining students- mostly freshmen- lack the experience I require for leading roles, as well as the maturity to handle them. Should a new student take me utterly by surprise— “ Sherlock’s eyebrow arched to suggest the improbability of such a scenario “—I would reconsider, but it is statistically unlikely that I will require more than one night to assemble the list.”

John sunk back into the armchair, suitably chastened by Sherlock’s response that screamed obviously to his core.   
“Well, I guess that makes the audition process easier.”

“Certainly,” Sherlock replied. He stood and strode to the bookshelves that framed the fireplace, reaching to one of the topmost shelves. The motion tugged his crisp white shirt just above his waistline, a flash of creamy skin exposed until his arm fell back to his side, bringing two binders with it. John blinked.

“I took the liberty of preparing your script for you. You’ll see some rudimentary blocking notes, the score, and the cast list.”

Sherlock passed John his binder and dropped his own in his chair before beginning to pace around the room, hands pressed together beneath his chin, tread sure as though he had walked the route thousands of times. 

“Many directors succumb to the pressure to adapt their show to a different time or place, to keep it “fresh” and “exciting.” Were this their true goal, I would not care, but for many is it a pitiful attempt to fill auditorium seats. A classic should pack the house because it is executed well—and that is what we shall do. No “cute modern twist,” no “dabbing” or whatever it is my peers do these days- a beautiful show, set in a timeless time, in an un-placeable place, telling a romance that does not require gimmicks to pull you in- Cinderella in all its glory.”

John watched Sherlock’s pacing, entranced by the passion with which he embraced the show and the clarity he used in sharing his vision. The director suddenly came to a halt, turning to John with newfound curiosity.

“You’ve had to work hard, to lead a group through trying times. Spent far too many hours at practice and suffered because of it.” Sherlock’s gaze did not lessen.

“Yes; enough for my high school years.”

“Want to do some more?” Sherlock queried.

“Oh God, yes,” John grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want  
> So tell me what you want, what you really really want  
> I wanna (ha), I wanna (ha), I wanna (ha), I wanna (ha)  
> I really really really want to see these losers get together


	3. (Working with Anderson is) Impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's rehearsal time!!!!

John entered the auditorium Wednesday afternoon at precisely 3:15, just as Sherlock had said. About 30 people were already gathered on the stage, and they all turned to look at him as he entered the cavernous space. He gave them a smile- as genuine as he could manage in the frankly nerve-wracking situation- and walked to Sherlock, who had his binder on the stage edge and was leaning against the wooden platform as he furiously scribbled something. John dropped his backpack on a seat before resting his own binder next to Sherlock’s.

“Why do you write like you’re running out of time?” he asked, grinning.

Sherlock looked up from his notes, giving him a look that John knew many would interpret has harsh, but he saw as inquisitive and even a little playful.

“How do you know Hamilton?”

“Everyone knows Hamilton,” John replied. 

“Not rugby-playing aspiring doctors from the United Kingdom,” Sherlock shot back. 

John laughed. “You got me. My American niece is obsessed.”

Sherlock hummed, clearly approving of the correctness of his initial deduction. John smiled, shaking his head as he turned back to his own binder. He pulled out his calendar, finding the date. Read through, it said. 3:20. John checked his watch just as the second hand ticked to the appropriate minute. He turned to face Sherlock.

“Mind if I get this show on the road?”

Sherlock looked up, a little startled at John’s initiative.  
“Not at all.”

John turned to the assembling crowd, hauling himself onto the stage and assuming his leader aura. He would not let the strange environment rob him of the qualities that would make him good at this job. 

“Okay everyone, let’s circle up,” he called, hoping his commandeering tone would overrule the growing clamor. Faces turned, slightly confused or annoyed at the authority exerted over them by a stranger, but ultimately obeyed. Sherlock sat in the forming circle, gesturing for him to do the same. 

“Hello everyone,” Sherlock began. “Welcome to Cinderella. As you are no doubt aware, John Watson is my new stage manager.”

There was an obnoxious “like he’s qualified” from the opposite end of the circle. John tensed, and the millions of reasons why this was a bad idea flooded his head. 

Sherlock, without skipping a beat, said: “Anderson, don’t talk. You lower the IQ of the entire school. If you did not harbor such a propensity for shoving your tongue down other people’s throats during rehearsals, you may still have this job. Actually, no, you wouldn’t, because you’re a twit.” Sherlock turned to John, returning his gaze and spreading blush with a playful smirk and nodding for him to continue. 

“Right-o. Now that that’s settled, here are your scripts. I’ll take attendance and then we’ll begin.”

Rehearsal was fairly tame after the initial outburst. It was clear that the cast respected Sherlock and listened to him, but did not particularly like him. He was not pulled into conversations during breaks or teased mercilessly like nearly everyone else; he functioned almost entirely as the man in charge, and nothing else. John thought that perhaps Sherlock Holmes- the intriguing, commanding, creative, and utterly beautiful Sherlock Holmes- was lonelier than he let on.

“Alright! That’s a wrap. Be sure to remember your scripts and notebooks tomorrow; we’re starting to block scenes. Good night all!” John waved cheerily as the adolescent mob swung backpacks on shoulders and wrapped scarves. He turned to Sherlock.

“I think that went well.” 

Sherlock snorted. “Besides Anderson being the complete ass he always is.”

John shrugged. “I don’t know. He did have a point, I have no experience, I don’t really belong…”

Sherlock turned abruptly, his face a mere inches from John’s, his eyes glowing with an intensity John had only seen once before, when he spoke about his love of theatre. 

“John. You are more than qualified for this job; you lead your rugby team wonderfully. A lack of knowledge in a subject area does not indicate a lack of skill or talent for that area; you have proven yourself more than competent in this rehearsal alone. As for not belonging here: you are new but you are not unwanted. I want you here.”

John exhaled as Sherlock sucked in a breath after his unexpected show of passion. Sherlock’s words settled into John’s core, warming him and making him feel welcome in hostile territory. John searched Sherlock’s face for any sign of his deception, a faked compliment to make sure he stayed, but could find none. He saw embarrassment for the depth of the statement and an earnest expression, but no grimace, no annoyance in the iris of the other man’s gaze. 

“Thanks,” he breathed. 

Sherlock responded with a sharp nod, the motion invading John’s space even further. He turned back to his script, assuming the confident and cold aura of a man in charge. John looked at his shoes and willed his heart to stop pounding. One thing was for sure: this show was going to be unforgettable in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anderson... what an asshole, amiright ladies?
> 
> Feel free to roast me in the comments for bringing Hamilton into this... what can I say, I'm a basic theatre kid.


	4. It's Possible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AH friendship and feelings

“You’re supposed to look as though you’re excited to attend this ball- God knows why- so could you please act like it? Seeing as that is what you are here to do?” Sherlock snarled at the cast. He was seated in the third row of the house, his impossibly long legs stretched over the seat in front of him, curls tousled from running his hands through in exasperation, expression merciless. 

“From the top everyone!” John called cheerfully from the seat next to Holmes. The cast shuffled to their starting positions, grumbling. 

“It wouldn’t kill you to be a bit more encouraging, would it?” John said to Sherlock in a tone unlikely to be heard by the cast or crew. 

“Honestly, John, it just might,” Sherlock drawled, letting his head fall back against the seat.   
“Besides, what’s the point? I have you to charm the masses.”

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s response, blushing slightly at the insinuation that he was charming.   
“Well,” he attempted a retort and found himself lacking a suitable reply. Luckily, the cast had finally reached their marks, and he gave a suitably vague hand motion to signal the start of the scene.

“Saved by the bell,” Sherlock murmured, smirking.   
“Tosser,” John replied.   
Sherlock just turned his head back to the scene before him, feeling considerably lighter than he did only a couple minutes ago. 

*

John sat perched on the lip of the stage before rehearsal one Thursday, making note of some slight adjustments necessary for the choreography to work with the set, when Sally Donavon dropped next to him.

“Hi Sally,” John greeted, flashing a smile. Sally was playing Cinderella, and to be perfectly honest, she scared him. She commanded any room (and any scene) she was in, and seemed to be the only one immune to Sherlock’s brutal criticism. Just yesterday she had waltzed into rehearsal late (a big no-no if you wanted to keep your head in Sherlock’s shows) and smirked at Sherlock. He only glared at her, making no comment. John could have sworn he saw a twinkle of friendliness in the usually hard gaze. 

“What are you doing?” she asked.  
“Making some blocking adjustments Sherlock needed.”  
Sally hummed noncommittally, clearly preparing for whatever discussion she had decided John would be participating in. Sally didn’t do anything without a reason, and John knew this interaction was no different. 

“How did you end up here?” she asked, her tone slightly accusatory.   
John shrugged.   
“I suffered a shoulder injury a couple months back, so rugby was off the table this season. Mr. Stamford suggested I try theatre.”  
“Why did you stay?” she continued her line of questioning. John glanced at the woman next to him, shrugging.   
“I just—got pulled in I guess. Sherlock made it all seem very intriguing.”  
A flicker of a smile flew across Sally’s face. Ah. That was the topic of the day’s inquiry. John decided to gain a bit of control over the direction of the conversation while he still could.   
“How did you meet Sherlock?”  
Sally sent him a look that said she knew exactly what he was doing.   
“I was his first ally in the theatre program. I didn’t put up with his bullshit, but I also saw his potential to be a fantastic director. I knew he wouldn’t succeed if no one listened to him, so I followed his direction, and the others grudgingly followed.”  
She let the silence sit between them before continuing.  
“He was really brutal in those days. Obsessed with perfection, entirely immune to the joyful side of performing. No one left for the day unless he said so, lines were memorized before rehearsals even began. If you didn’t like the way he ran things, you could leave.  
“That’s changed since you came. He’s—gentler. More forgiving. And his scenes—they’re better.”  
John raised his eyebrow at this.  
“Seriously. More heartfelt.”  
John gave her a small smile. Sally responded by patting his hand.   
“The point of this wasn’t to make you feel good about yourself, Watson. It was to make sure you know that if you break his heart, I will break your fucking hand.”  
And with that, Sally turned on her heel, striding away from the stage, objectives for the talk clearly met. John sat, stunned, for a minute. Break his heart? But Sherlock and he weren’t… well… John allowed his line of thinking to wander. Had he really affected Sherlock so much? He liked to think he and Sherlock were friends, at the very least. They spend nearly every day together, working, chatting, studying, trying to make this show, their baby, into something spectacular. A close bond was bound to emerge from such an experience, no? But John would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that sometimes he felt- hoped for- so much more. He shook himself out of his reverie. Sherlock had made no indication that he liked John like that, no matter what Sally implied. They were good friends, and that was something to cherish- not risk with silly sentiments that were, in all likelihood, unreciprocated.   
*  
It had been an awful day, and it was only growing worse. Sherlock wouldn’t be at rehearsal until 4:30 due to a doctor’s appointment (entirely pointless, Sherlock had said), leaving John to keep everyone on task and act like he knew what he was talking about. It was exhausting. He now had a much greater appreciation for the teachers that not only had to contain the same hormonal adolescents, but also teach them something during the school day. John inhaled deeply before turning back to the cast. 

“Okay everyone, let’s run the transformation and It’s Possible one more time before Sherlock gets back. It’s the most magical part of the show and I want it to look it.”

The sounds of thirty people shuffling and shifting surrounded him, but one murmur caught his attention.   
“If only it were possible for Sherlock to transform from such an asshole into a real director.”  
John snapped to attention.  
“Stop,” he snarled. Actors froze, unused to hearing John assume the “bad cop” role.   
“I’m not going to force the person who just made an utterly rude comment to step forward. I’m not that sadistic. But I will say this: you are so lucky to work with Sherlock. Yes, he can be callous at times, but he is a genius at what he does. Only he could whip a motley cast of fifty and a few piles of wood into a show so utterly magical and beautiful. He has never insulted any of you personally unless provoked- any harsh comment made was a critique of your acting, which is his job. To imply he is bad at directing or cruel is simply false, and I won’t stand for it. He is the wittiest, smartest, and most brilliant man I know, and if you ever feel the urge to insult him on my stage again, there is the door.”

And John turned to point at the house exit, motions rigid with anger, when he came to a sudden halt. Standing at the entrance to the auditorium was Sherlock himself, one hand on his book bag, one resting at his side, expression utterly transparent. He looked vulnerable and grateful in a way that made John’s heart clench. The stage manager mentally rewound the speech that had just flown from his lips unthinkingly, praying that it had not been as revealing of his affection as he hoped and finding his wishes unfulfilled. 

“John, I—“ Sherlock haltingly began, taking a step into the room before stopping. 

“Places in three. Start the scene from the top,” he ordered, not shying away from Sherlock’s gaze for a moment. He moved towards Sherlock as the cast shuffled to obey. Sherlock met him in the middle of the aisle, stopping a foot away from John. John began to speak, hoping to explain himself.

“Sherlock, I— “  
“Is it true?” Sherlock asked, searching John’s face. John let him, keeping his expression open.  
“Yes,” he replied. “You’re a wonderful director, a good man and—“ he paused, careful to keep his emotions guarded, not wanting to scare Sherlock. “- A good friend.”  
Sherlock’s visage altered at that- some relief, some joy, and a hint of- regret? Sadness? He couldn’t tell, for the plain sentiment etched on his face was gone in a moment, replaced by his usual mask of indifference.   
“I appreciate that, John. You are more talented and a better man than you believe as well. Let’s go to work.” And with that he strode away, ridiculous coat swirling around him, feeling couched in brusque tones that did nothing to lessen the impact John felt as they hit his chest. But their mutual declarations could wait- would have to wait. It was time to rehearse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH
> 
> I'm anxious and I know how it ends lol


	5. Are you the sweet invention of a lover's dream?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some violin playing, some deep thoughts (TM), some MRS HUDSOOON

Ten weeks of rehearsal flew by more quickly than John thought possible, rehearsals made even more fun with the knowledge that Sherlock enjoyed and appreciated John as much as John appreciated the madman. But tech week approached, bringing opening night with it, and so he and Sherlock were having a strategy meeting. 

The door to 221B swung open, framing the now-familiar face of Mrs. Hudson.   
“Good afternoon, dear! Here to talk with Sherlock?” she asked in the doting tone mothers used when they cooed over their child’s kindergarten boyfriend. John smiled, unwilling to dampen the landlady’s cheerful mood.  
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Opening night is only a couple weeks away.”  
“Oh, I know that dear. Had it marked on my calendar since Sherlock told me. I can’t wait to see the show!”  
“Glad to hear it, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll make sure it’s extra beautiful, just for you.”  
“Always the charmer. Sherlock’s upstairs, dear.”  
“Ta, Mrs. Hudson,” John replied, taking the steps two at a time, listening to the strains of a violin in the Cinderella score. Sherlock must be listening to the soundtrack, going over final details.   
John halted in the doorframe of the apartment when he saw that the sweet sound was coming from Sherlock’s own playing. John was entranced as Sherlock’s tall lean frame moved in a lazy waltz, his arm moving at a steady tempo, showing off the muscle hidden under the impeccable suit Sherlock wore. The violinist’s gentle sway swung him in John’s direction, and he stopped when he saw John, echoing the other man’s stance. 

John swallowed. “I didn’t know you played,” he offered. Sherlock hummed, an acknowledgement of John’s slight confusion.

“Helps me think,” he said before sitting in his usual chair. John gingerly sat in his own, still a little shaken up by the realization. He pulled out his own script, attempting to focus on the diagrams and phrases, but found he couldn’t.

“I’m sorry, it’s just- you play so beautifully.” It was Sherlock’s turn to look slightly stunned with the pronouncement. 

“I play better with an audience,” he shrugged, brushing off the compliment, but John knew an offer when he heard one.

“Please?” he asked, feeling more than a little childish as he requested that the breathtaking man across from him continue his playing. 

“As you wish,” Sherlock replied, but his own joy showed on his face. He rose from his seat, raising the violin to his chin in a fluid motion. The melody of a sweet duet from Act II filled the room, and the lyrics flooded John’s mind unbidden.   
Do I love you because you’re beautiful, or are you beautiful because I love you?  
Am I making believe I see in you a man too perfect to be really true?  
Do I want you because you’re wonderful, or are you wonderful because I want you?  
Are you the sweet invention of a lover’s dream?   
Or are you really as beautiful as you seem?

John had always thought the lyrics were too trite, too self-centered to really make anyone feel special. But now those words spoke to him. Was his infatuation with Sherlock true? Or was it a passing reaction to an overdose of chemicals in his bloodstream, a byproduct of too much time spent together? One glance at the man before him, eyes shut as he swayed to the melody, physique disciplined as he played yet softer in some way, a small reflection of the romance he was creating with his bow. John had never seen Sherlock so at ease, so human. And he knew, with Sherlock so vulnerable and beautiful before him, that Sherlock really was as beautiful as he seemed. And John loved him for it. 

The song came to an end with a flourish from Sherlock. John met his gaze and smiled, openly and broadly in a way he rarely shared with others. Sherlock may never reciprocate the traitorous feelings of the flesh that John had fallen victim to, but John would not let that stop him from making his friend- his best friend- from feeling happy and cherished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those chapter summaries are really falling apart. 
> 
> SO the song Sherlock plays on the violin is from Rodgers&Hammerstein's Cinderella (obviously), and it's called "Do I love you because you're beautiful?" The lyrics are a bit inane, but the song is so lovely I couldn't help myself. Listen to it for that multi-sense experience.


	6. The Search (for Love)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intimacy, my friends. Elusive. Makes anyone under the age of 16 squirm. Found in spades between our boys.

They were exactly one week away from opening night, and John thought that if Sherlock kept on this way he would give himself an aneurysm in that bloody massive brain of his. 

“You are lovers! You are in love! Your first kiss cannot look like a chance collision between a set of disembodied lips! And those “dramatic pauses”- I could drive a lorry through them. The point is to entrance the audience, not give them an invitation to fall asleep before you reach the next word,” Sherlock stopped to inhale deeply, eyes falling shut and hands slipping through his curls in an attempt to hold himself back. John sensed it was time to step in.

“Sally, Eddie, you stay right there. Everyone else, take a break.” John turned to Sherlock.   
“Are you okay?”  
Sherlock’s gaze turned hard, a knee-jerk reaction to the insinuation that he was weak, before allowing his posture and expression to slump slightly in the presence of his trusted companion.  
“Just frustrated. It’s been a long week,” he admitted quietly. John nodded and turned back to the pair on stage, allowing Sherlock a moment of privacy. 

“Okay you two. Let’s practice this kiss.” Sally grimaced before turning back to Eddie. The chemistry between the pseudo-couple wasn’t awful; John thought that the real issue was embarrassment. It was hard to kiss in front of fifty of your peers. 

“I’m not going to pretend that I’ve been in your situation,” John began, painfully aware of his inexperience in the theatre, “but my best advice is to focus on the moment- the music, the dance, the romance, rather than the audience. Which, I know, easier said than done, but give it a shot.”

He cued up the waltz and watched as the pair glided around the stage, reaching downstage center as the music swelled. Eddie twirled Sally- once, twice, three times- and then pulled her into a kiss that was marginally better than the one only minutes before. John turned to Sherlock, a help me please expression on his face. 

Sherlock stepped forward. “Intimacy can’t be faked, but it can be grown,” he stated, ignoring the cringes of Sally and Eddie at the phrasing. “Sit down and face each other. No need to hold hands or any of that nonsense, just look each other in the eye. John is going to let you know when you can stop, but for three minutes, you’re going to just look.” Eddie rolled his eyes. 

“Sherlock, what do you know about relationships and intimacy?” he teased. “You can’t exactly force feelings like one of your experiments.”

Sherlock tensed. “I know a lot more than you think,” he replied, steadfastly avoiding the gaze of anyone in the room. Sally smirked.  
“Sherlock, it hardly seems fair for you to subject us to something without participating in it yourself,” the leading actress grinned. She knew how to manipulate Sherlock. Sherlock sighed, resigning himself to the challenge.   
“John, if you would be so kind?” the director turned to his stage manager.   
“Of course,” John answered, clearing his throat. 

And so each pair sat cross-legged and the three minutes began. John smiled at Sherlock, letting comfort and ease bleed into his gaze. It was rare that Sherlock was out-manipulated, and this exercise was probably making him uncomfortable. Sherlock, to John’s surprise, allowed himself a hesitant smile back, the positivity of the emotion crinkling the corners of his eyes. John had never noticed how green Sherlock’s eyes were before; but green wasn’t exactly correct. It was green offset by blue tones and gold flecks that made his iris appear as though a wave-smoothed stone along the beach, beauty tempered by its environment. Only Sherlock could make a descriptor like eye color into a unique form of self-expression. And self-expression was the most apt word. John had never felt as aware and close to Sherlock as he did in this moment, meeting the gaze of a man being vulnerable and forcing himself into that state of mind as well. Watching Sherlock, John came to the distinct conclusion that Sherlock did not trust many people, and yet he had trusted John. He could have brushed Sally off, told her to focus on her acting, feigned a need to work on something else for the show, but he instead devoted three minutes to allowing John to see him for who he was. John knew that no matter what their relationship was classified as, it was one of the most- no, the most meaningful and intentional relationship he had ever been a part of. He trusted Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes trusted him. And that realization felt so much more momentous than his first reciprocated crush, his first kiss, the first time he said I love you. 

“John,” a soft murmuration shook him from his thoughts. “John.”  
John blinked and forced himself to focus on Sherlock’s gaze.   
“The three minutes are over.”  
John nodded, pushing himself onto his feet and extending a hand to Sherlock.  
Sherlock looked at him, trusting, and suddenly that shared gaze felt so much more- and John hated to admit this- intimate than it had before. 

John cleared his throat.   
“Sally? Eddie? How was it?”  
Sally smirked. “Not nearly as intense as the two of you. If I knew Sherlock wouldn’t throw me out on the spot, I’d say get a room.”  
“You just did say it, Sally.” Sherlock replied in a gentler tone than anyone expected.  
“Oh, I guess I did.” Sally replied, smugly.

John decided to reign in the situation.   
“Alright, alright. Let’s try this scene again.”

And sure enough, the kiss was much more heartfelt. John couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to dance with Sherlock, to catch his gaze once again and twirl around the room, spinning until he was finally stopped by strong arms and pulled into a kiss that would surely anchor him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stole the eye contact thing from this fic about forcing intimacy with a deep conversation and then prolonged eye contact. I can't for the life of me find it right now; if anyone knows what I'm talking about, lmk the fic and the author in the comments so I can give proper credit. :)


	7. A Lovely Night (part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Opening Night!

John speed-walked through the crowded halls of the theatre wing, pushing aside tulle and silk dresses with one hand and clutching his clipboard in the other. It was opening night, and John really hadn’t expected to feel this nervous. They had practiced for weeks- no, months- it was almost impossible to be more rehearsed. But he was anxious anyway as he completed attendance, fixed zippers, and gathered cast and crew to the dressing room.

“Okay everyone. Sherlock said this idea was stupid but quite frankly, I don’t give a damn.” A giggle went around the circle and John nudged Sherlock gently with his shoulder to show he was just teasing. 

“As you all know, I signed up for this because I had an injured shoulder. It wasn’t where I expected to be for ten weeks. But I’m so glad Mr. Stamford introduced me to Sherlock, and to this show, because I’ve had a magnificent time. I had no idea how hard you all work, the passion and the tears that goes into transporting a room full of people into your world. And you’ve transported me. Every time I watch this show I feel it- I get teary when you dance and kiss, nervous when the shoes don’t fit, and euphoric when Cinderella gets married.”  
“It’s true,” Sherlock added, and the room giggled again. “It’s actually a bit embarrassing.” He smiled at John to take the sting out of the statement.   
“Anyway,” John continued, “you’ve created a really fantastic show, and I can’t wait to see it tonight. Now, everyone grab the hand of the person next to you” - John would be lying if he said he hadn’t planned this so he could hold Sherlock’s hand- “and keep quiet. I’m going to squeeze Sherlock’s hand, and he’ll pass it to the next person, and so on, until we go all the way ‘round the circle.” And with that, he fell into silence, focusing on the feel of Sherlock’s cool hand in his, the comforting presence of his dear friend on a night so special and nerve-wracking as this one. The squeeze went around the circle with minimal interruption and snickering, finally reaching John.   
“Okay everyone, break a leg!” John smiled, releasing the cast and crew for their last minute preparations. He turned to face Sherlock.   
“Ready?”  
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Sherlock replied, allowing a warm smile to cross his face, soothing John’s nerves.   
“Good,” John replied, giving Sherlock’s hand one last squeeze before releasing it to assume his position backstage. 

* 

“Sherlock? Can you hear me?” John murmured into his headset.  
“Yes John,” the director’s voice echoed down the line from the booth. “Call places.”  
John did so, and listened to Sherlock directing the sound and lights techs to set the stage. The orchestra swelled, and John took a deep breath before giving his first cue to the dancers.   
“Don’t worry, John,” Sherlock murmured into his mic, “We are more than ready for this.”  
And with that, the show began.

*

John had no idea how fun running a show could be. The thrill of a show pulled together, greater than the sum of its many moving parts, was far greater than the joy of watching a show unfold before you. And Sherlock’s commentary only made the experience better. Minor mistakes that would have been sharply criticized and corrected in rehearsal became funny, because there was nothing you could do to change them now. While John realized this was the rationale of a mad man, he couldn’t help but find it hilarious when Drizzella’s wig tipped to the side, or the light cue came a touch too soon, and Jean-Michel’s portrayal of fear and shock was a little more lifelike than intended. 

“John,” Sherlock murmured near the end of the show, “look at Cinderella and the prince.”  
It was the part of the show where Cinderella tries on the slipper, and it quickly became clear that Cinderella’s foot- contrary to the popular folktale- might not actually fit in the slipper. John bit back a giggle.

“This is hard to watch,” Sherlock echoed his laughter.   
“Perfect fit!” Cinderella declared after much pushing and shoving.  
“If the fit had been any more perfect,” Sherlock drawled, “it might not have gone on her foot.”   
John collapsed into giggles, covering his mouth to try and minimize the noise backstage.   
“That is too funny,” he replied. He could almost hear Sherlock smirking over the line.   
“Yes, well, back to work, John,” he answered, and so they did. 

Finally, finally the show ended, the curtain call completed, and the after-party could begin.   
“John, are you coming to the cast party?” Sally asked.  
“I would love to,” John replied, glowing from the joy of a job well done and the invitation from a group of people he was sure would never like him. Sherlock fell into place beside him, and John whirled around to pull him into a hug. 

“That was amazing Sherlock! The cast was amazing! The crew was amazing! You were amazing!”  
Sherlock blushed before disentangling himself from John.  
“You were wonderful as well, John. Truly fantastic.” Then it was John’s turn to blush. He broke Sherlock’s gaze to scuff his shoe on the floor before turning back to his friend.   
“Are you coming to the after-party?”  
Sally broke into the conversation, and John felt guilty for forgetting she was still there.   
“He never comes.”  
“Oh Sherlock, you have to come, it will be so much fun,” John pleaded.  
Sherlock looked about, clearly casting for an excuse, but seemed to stop his search mid-thought. “Alright.”  
Sally was stunned. John whooped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II is where shit happens, ya'll. Click next!


	8. A Lovely Night (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a part-ay!

The party was at Eddie’s house, and was just getting going as John and Sherlock arrived. John grinned at the gaggles of friends laughing, the intense games of charades and pictionary, and the couples making out in corners. Sherlock was giving off the distinct vibe that this was not his scene. John reached for his arm. 

“Come on. Let’s get some food and play some games.”  
After a couple hours of eating (Sherlock is not good at this), playing charades (Sherlock is surprisingly good at this), and deducing people (Sherlock is excellent at this), the party had dwindled to around fifteen people. John’s stomach hurt from laughing so much, and even Sherlock looked mildly amused. Eddie jumped up onto his futon.

“Okay everybody! Congratulations on making it to the after-after-party.”  
“Why is it the after-after-party now?” John asked.  
“Because I only have enough booze for fifteen people!” Eddie laughed, jumping off the couch and running a victory lap around the room to accept the high fives from his adoring peers. John laughed, allowing himself to relax into the moment. He was on the floor, his back against the couch that Sherlock was sitting on. His shoulder was pressed to Sherlock’s knee, a warm point of contact that made John feel content. Eddie and the other teens were running around, grabbing juices and liquor and shot glasses. John felt Sherlock tense at the commotion and the coming mass intoxication. 

“Hey. Are you okay?” John asked, letting his head rest on the cushion behind him to look up at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock gave him a small smile, allowing a brief touch to John’s head in an attempt to reassure him that he was alright.   
“I’m okay. Just—new environment.”  
John reached for the hand that was resting near his shoulder with the opposite arm, tugging Sherlock’s arm across his chest, forcing him to maintain eye contact.   
“We don’t have to stay, and you don’t have to drink, Sherlock. Really.”  
“I know,” Sherlock replied, his defensive tone evidence of how uncomfortable he felt.   
“I want to stay, though. And I know myself. I’ll be fine.”  
John gave Sherlock a final smile and squeezed his hand before turning his attention to Eddie, who had appeared in front of the pair. He handed John and Sherlock their drinks- a mysterious red concoction- and raised his own cup.   
“A toast- to Sherlock and John! Couldn’t have done this crazy show without them, the lucky bastards.” And before John could analyze what he meant by lucky bastards, everyone was drinking and the after-after-party had begun.

 

Somehow between the toast and the flip cup and the beer pong John had agreed to play truth or dare. The dwindling group gathered in a tight circle, and John found himself pressed against Sherlock, their sides in constant contact from ankle to shoulder. The questions and challenges flew from person to person, oohs and laughter filling the air. John watched a bit dazedly, reveling in the feeling of belonging and Sherlock’s presence. 

It was only a matter of time until John was picked for the next truth or dare. Sally’s sharp gaze landed on him, and she grinned a bit predatorily. John knew nothing good could come of this, so he chose what he thought would be the safer option- dare. Sally’s gaze lit up, and he knew in that moment that he had made a mistake. 

“I dare you…” Sally held the pause, her gaze triumphant, “to kiss Sherlock.”

John froze. He could feel Sherlock tense next to him. The entire room seemed to hold its breath. The problem was, John really wanted to kiss Sherlock. How could he not? He had spent months pining after him, his gorgeous looks, his intellect, his commanding presence. But here? And what if Sherlock didn’t want to? He would never, never, force himself on someone. There was only one way to proceed. 

He turned his head, meeting Sherlock’s gaze. He arched one eyebrow, questioning: is this okay? Sherlock nodded almost imperceptibly, but it was enough for John. So John raised one hand to his cheek, turning his body to better position himself, and brought his lips to meet Sherlock’s. He slotted their lips together, applying a bit more pressure before pulling back. Sherlock, utterly unresponsive until the moment he began to withdraw, leaned forward as John pulled away. John opened his eyes, praying that he hadn’t ruined his friendship, the one good thing that came out of his awful shoulder injury. Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, meeting John’s gaze. His face was unreadable. John didn’t know what to do. John had kissed Sherlock, and Sherlock hadn’t enjoyed it. John felt anxious and sick. What if he had misread Sherlock and he didn’t want to kiss John at all? Had he forced himself onto his best friend? John simply broke his gaze and turned back to Sally, plastering a fake smile on his face. 

“Happy?” he teased. Sally just nodded once, her previously gleeful expression now something else. John turned to Eddie, eager to get the attention off of himself. He felt Sherlock shift slightly away from him, the unbroken connection between them now gone, leaving his right side cold. It felt wrong. Everything felt wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep going!


	9. Ten Minutes Ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally is a hero, ya'll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to Ten Minutes Ago (Reprise) when it starts in the chapter (you'll know where).

Saturday’s show was awful. Sally knew it wasn’t just because everyone was hungover from the night before, or the opening night adrenaline had worn off. It was because their leaders were feeling shitty, and so they all felt shitty. Sally sighed. Being Sherlock’s advocate was a full-time job. When the show finally ended she marched up to the booth- ignoring the costume crew’s protests about taking off her costume and her family’s pleas to stay and chat- and confronted Sherlock Holmes.

“Sherlock Holmes, what did you do to make that boy so ashamed of himself? I swear he was halfway in love with you, you kiss him, which usually cements that sort of thing, and now any time he looks at you he looks queasy.”  
Sherlock looked at the ground, tears filling his eyes even as he forced himself to stay collected. Sally saw his distress and felt a little guilty for coming at him so strongly.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry,” she said in a gentler tone, moving to sit next to Sherlock in the cramped booth and wrap an arm around his shoulders. “I just- you looked so happy together last night. And then it got awkward after truth or dare- I apologize for that, by the way,” she said, truly regretful. Sherlock forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat and speak to his friend. 

“I- I do like John. Like that. And last night- we were having a wonderful time. John looked so happy, so at ease, and I was so happy watching him be happy,” Sherlock replied, a little embarrassed at his ineloquent response. “And when he kissed me- I was so happy, Sally. He was so kind, and he made sure I was okay with it first, and when he kissed me it felt- fantastic. I just froze up, because- because I didn’t know what to do.”

Sally read between the lines.

“Was John your first kiss?” she asked, quietly. Sherlock nodded. “Do you still want to kiss John?”  
“Yes,” Sherlock whispered. Sally nodded, happy that she hadn’t fucked everything up.   
“Good. I need you to trust me here Sherlock: I haven’t spoken to John, but I know this. He really wanted to kiss you, and I know he still does.” She squeezed him gently at these words, emphasizing their importance. “But he’s not going to make the first move. He was probably nervous that you didn’t like it when you froze up, and now he’s scared that he’s hurt you. So you need to show him that you care. You need to show him that you trust him, that you like him, and that you would be more than willing to have that happen again.” She wiggled an eyebrow to make Sherlock laugh, and got a small smile out of him. Little victories. 

Sherlock straightened up, filling himself with a confidence and bravado that he didn’t feel. “Okay. I trust you,” he replied, and set about planning how he was going to win over John Watson.

The Sunday matinee was marginally better than Saturday’s show, John thought. The cast was slightly sad at the prospect of the production coming to a close, but committed to making their last show a great one. The soft sounds of Sherlock calling cues whispered in John ear as he watched the lovely tale unfold from the wings. The prince announced his ball; the ensemble danced joyously. Cinderella spoke of places only imagined, the local primary school children dressed as her attentive mice. The fairy godmother descended to begin her transformation, and John was reminded of the nasty comment he overheard at rehearsal, his subsequent outburst, how close he and Sherlock had grown afterwards. As the ball commenced, so did images of Sherlock waltzing in 221B, so graceful on his feet. The twirls and the awkward kiss made less awkward with Sherlock’s lesson in intimacy. With the duet in Act II, John thought of his quiet revelation as Sherlock had serenaded him on the violin. How rapidly he fell for Sherlock, the man who really was as beautiful as he seemed. When Cinderella struggled to put on the slipper once again, John was reminded of his favorite part of Sherlock: Sherlock could always make him laugh. Sherlock made him happy, so happy he didn’t worry about his shoulder injury or how he didn’t belong in the theatre program or his alcoholic sister. Sherlock made him feel that together, just the two of them against the rest of the world, they were enough. More than enough. 

The object of John’s affections- and attention- took the stage, startling John from his reverie. Curtain call already? They had rehearsed this part last week. Sherlock would address the audience and thank them for attending before acknowledging each senior student with a rose. He leaned his head against the cool brick of the dark backstage, thankful for the cover of darkness as he thought of the man he couldn’t have. The names of his peers echoed through the auditorium, followed by polite applause and the sounds of a hug or cheer. He let the rhythm of the ceremony soothe him, sliding his eyes shut. His breathing steadied, and for a moment he felt at peace. But a new sound had replaced the auditory pattern he had been using to measure his heartbeat, and he listened to the sound increase and swell, foreign and definitely not part of the program. Soon he recognized the melody: it was the song before intermission, the song with Cinderella and the Prince’s first kiss. He slowly edged towards the curtain, peeking out to see the cast singing and facing him. Sally walked towards him, grabbing his hand and pulling him from behind the curtain into the stage lights. 

The lights were hot and bright, overwhelming John so he could hardly breathe or see. A dark silhouette approached John, the figure becoming more visible with each step. It was Sherlock. 

Ten minutes ago, I saw you  
As we murmured our how-do-you-do’s  
I wanted to ring out the bells and fling out my arms  
And to sing out the news

He handed his mic to Eddie, extending a hand to John. John found himself entranced and extended his hand in return. He was swept in to Sherlock’s grasp, suddenly so near to the face he had missed so dearly. 

“Do you know how to waltz?” Sherlock asked. John nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. So Sherlock lead, gently nudging John’s right foot backwards as they began to sweep across the stage. 

I have found him  
He’s an angel  
With the dust of the stars in his eyes  
We are dancing   
We are flying  
And he’s taking me back to the skies

“John,” Sherlock murmured, “I have wanted you, wished for you for so long. I never- I never expected you to want me back. When you kissed me, I- I froze because I was overwhelmed.”  
John stared up at Sherlock, listening intently, desperately pushing his brain to work at even half of its normal capacity despite the unusual situation.

In the arms of my love I’m flying  
Over mountain and meadow and glen

“John,” Sherlock said again, calling the attention of the man in his arms. “Friday night- that was my first kiss,” John’s eyes widened at the statement, “and I would like it very much if you were my second one as well.” 

John’s heart seemed to halt, the conversation finally catching up to him.  
And I like it so well that for all I can tell  
Sherlock likes me.  
And I like it so well that for all I can tell  
He wants to kiss me.  
And I like it so well that for all I can tell  
We’re downstage center.   
And I like it so well that for all I can tell  
Sherlock twirled him once, twice, three times.  
I may never come down to Earth again.  
And then they kissed. It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last time, but to the two young men given their chance at a fairy tale ending, it was by far the most important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the fic! I had so much fun writing this. If you want an epilogue or a continuation of series, let me know in the comments!

**Author's Note:**

> John Watson is a stud, Sherlock Holmes is impressed, Mike Stamford is a mastermind as usual.


End file.
